


“Happy Birthday.”

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Kisses [51]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-18 15:57:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21530203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Happy birthday, Cormoran Strike!
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: First Kisses [51]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1022949
Comments: 38
Kudos: 107





	“Happy Birthday.”

Robin looked up with a smile as Strike entered the office. His cheeks were tinged pink and his hair windswept, his eyes red-rimmed.

“Christ, it’s cold out there,” he grumbled, removing his coat and hanging it on the peg. He was shivering a little and his hands were red as he rubbed them together. “Really must find my gloves.”

Robin stood and went to the kitchenette. “Kettle’s hot,” she said, waving at the fresh mug of tea by her keyboard. “Cuppa?”

“Mm, yes, please,” he replied. He moved, more stiff and stilted than he would have liked, to the leather sofa and lowered himself onto it with a grateful sigh. “God, I have walked miles today. Why don’t the marks ever stay put when you’ve got a good seat in a cafe? I’m sure they know.”

Robin laughed as pulled a tea bag from the box and dropped it into a mug. The kettle was already almost boiling again. “I’m sure they do,” she said. “Redhead spends hours in exercise classes if I’m doing aerobics or whatever, but she’s straight back out if I order a slice of cake. Had to wolf a whole brownie in two mouthfuls the other day, not a good look when you’re supposedly at a swanky gym trying to keep fit.”

Strike grinned, watching fondly as she made his tea. It was good to sit down, to be indoors, warmed by the glow of her presence.

She passed the mug across to him, then picked hers up and offered him a toast with it. Eyebrow quirked, Strike clinked his cup to hers.

“Happy birthday,” she said, grinning, and watched the expression of mingled exasperation and shy pleasure flit across his face. He claimed not to want to remember his birthday, but he always looked touched that she had.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“You doing anything later?”

“On a random weekday night? Er, maybe hoping there’s some football on the telly. Champions League group stages are still on.”

“That’s the most exciting thing you can find to do on your birthday?” she teased.

“Robin, I am a man of simple tastes. A good quality football match, a takeaway and a spot of something nice to drink and I’m happy as Larry.”

She grinned at him. “Well, in that case, I can help with that,” she said, and passed him a bottle bag that had been nestled just out of sight behind her desk.

Strike rolled his eyes a little, but couldn’t hide his smile as he put his mug down on the floor by his foot and accepted the bag. A card was sticking out of the top. He opened that first, and snorted a laugh at the penguin-based cartoon on the front. Inside Robin had written simply, “To Cormoran, happy birthday, love Robin x”.

He smiled and set it aside next to him on the sofa. Robin watched, her bottom resting back against her desk, as he slid the bottle from the bag and puffed out his cheeks. “Arran single malt. Wow, thank you, Robin.” He glanced up at her, eyebrows raised. “How did you know?”

She coloured a little. “I texted Ilsa.”

Strike nodded, grinning. “They’ve got me this before,” he said. “Must give them a ring actually, we haven’t done a curry night for ages. You in?”

Robin nodded. “Definitely,” she said. “Let me know when.” Strike smiled.

She regarded him fondly as he sat back with a sigh, cupping his mug once again. “Feeling warmer?”

Strike nodded again. “Actually, you know what?” he said. “I know what would warm me up even more.” He removed the bottle from the bag again, opened it and poured a generous slug into his tea, then offered her the bottle.

Robin shook her head. “It’s yours.”

“And I’m offering you a drop. Come on, don’t make a chap drink alone.”

She smiled and held her mug out while he poured a little in. “In that case, why don’t I buy you a pint at the Tottenham too?”

Strike pretended confusion. “But it’s not Friday.” He screwed the lid back onto the whisky and slid the bottle back into the bag.

Robin winked. “I know. Special occasion.”

Strike sat back again and took a gulp of his tea. “Now, that’s the way to warm up,” he said with a sigh of satisfaction. He reflected briefly that almost any other offer of company would have been an unwelcome intrusion on his planned solo evening, but Robin...

“You know what? A pint would be good. Football doesn’t start till eight anyway.”

“Hah!” Robin grinned. “We’d better hurry up, then. I wouldn’t want to keep you from the football. I declare early closing at the office for birthdays.”

“I seem to recall you were here till seven on yours.”

Robin waved a dismissive arm. “That’s different.” She turned away and busied herself shutting down her computer, hoping he’d think the colour on her cheeks was from the whisky. She’d stayed until seven on her birthday pretending to work and waiting for him to get back from an interview, barely admitting even to herself that she was hoping he’d suggest the Tottenham, delighted that he had.

“It’s the same,” Strike was saying now, and Robin laughed. “I guess so.”

She bent to turn the computer off at the wall and stood again. “Right,” she said briskly. “Finish your tea, get warmed up and I’m dragging you down the pub.”

They drank in comfortable silence for a minute, and then Robin reached out a hand. Strike passed her his empty mug and she stepped across to put it and hers in the sink. She turned back for her coat, and Strike had pulled himself up from the little sofa and was stood by the coat stand. He was smiling at her as she stepped across to him.

“Thank you, Robin,” he said softly, and she felt herself blush a little again.

“You’re welcome,” she said, lightly. “Happy birthday.” And she pushed herself up onto tiptoes to kiss his cheek, her hand closing gently around his upper arm.

It had become a thing that they did sometimes. A peck on the cheek on birthdays or at Christmas, or at difficult moments Strike might give her a friendly squeeze round the shoulders or she’d touch his arm, gestures of moral support. Of friendship.

This was different somehow. It wasn’t their usual quick, friendly press of lips to cheek and move away again. Robin found herself lingering just a beat too long, and Strike’s arm slid around her waist, encouraging her closer. His cheek was still a little flushed and cold, and his stubble was rough under her lips. His hand was warm where it splayed across her back.

Pink-cheeked herself, Robin pulled back, giving his arm a friendly squeeze, and his hand began to slide reluctantly away from her. She grinned up at him and he twinkled down at her, kindly dark eyes and the boyish grin she saw more and more these days.

A rush of fondness overcame her, and on impulse she leaned in to kiss him again, only this time he turned his head and their lips met.

For a split second it was as though she could smell hot tarmac and summer flowering stocks, and then Robin jumped and pulled away, but the merest hint of pressure from his fingers that were now at her waist stopped her. She looked up at him, inches apart, her heart hammering, her cheeks flushed, and he gazed back at her, serious suddenly, his eyes searching hers. It hadn’t been an accident this time.

Frozen, Robin stared back, her breath fluttering in her chest, and he slowly leaned down and kissed her again, a gentle press of his mouth to hers, and drew away. His eyes held a question now, the question that had hung in the air between them, unacknowledged, for months. Maybe longer.

“Cormoran—” she murmured, and stopped, not even sure what she wanted to say.

“Robin,” he replied, a soft smile spreading across his face, and the sound of her name spoken so tenderly was all she needed. She pushed herself up onto her toes again, her mouth meeting his.

The question was answered. He responded to her kiss with a sure confidence, his lips parting and his tongue seeking hers. With a little moan Robin pressed closer, her arms creeping up around his neck, and now both his hands were at her waist, drawing her gently against him. His tongue investigated her mouth, tasting of tea and whisky, tasting her in return.

He kissed her for a long minute, and Robin kissed him back, her heart pounding. It had been over ten years since she’d kissed anyone but Matthew. Kissing Strike was so very different than she had imagined, not that she had allowed herself to imagine it much. She had assumed that he would be rougher, more assertive. She hadn’t expected this gentle, almost tentative exploration.

All too soon he pulled away again, but his hands stayed at her waist. He gazed down at her, and his expression was so intense, Robin’s cheeks flamed and she buried her face in the front of his jumper. She stood, hiding her face, breathing his comforting smell, feeling his arms about her, trying to get her breath and let her thoughts catch up.

She felt his hand move cradle her head, stroking her hair.

“All right?” His voice was a low rumble that she felt almost as much as heard, still pressed against him. She nodded vigorously into his chest, her arms tightening around his neck, and he chuckled.

“Pub, then?”

The moment broken, Robin laughed. She leaned back and looked up, her arms still looped around his neck, and suddenly he was just Strike again, grinning down at her fondly, that intense look gone. Except things were subtly different. The smile he gave her was unguarded, and happiness swelled in her chest.

He released her and reached for her coat, taking it down from the peg and holding it while she slid her arms into it. Then he turned to retrieve his and pull it on, giving Robin a moment to straighten her hair with trembling fingers. He turned back to her and smiled again. “Ready?”

Robin nodded, and Strike patted his pockets, checking for cigarettes and keys. They stepped out of the office and Strike flicked the lights off, closed the door and locked up, smooth, practised motions.

He grinned down at her again as they turned to the stairs and Robin, smiling shyly, slid her hand into his large one and followed him down.


End file.
